Songs From the North
by sandraque
Summary: Set in an AU where the Great War of Kings ended in Joffrey Lannister's death. The story centers around Gendry, now a Baratheon, and Arya Stark. Gendry faces the burden of the inheritance of Dragonstone meanwhile Arya must now take the responsibility she had put off for so long- a responsibility, as a lord's sister, to marry for the good of her kingdom...
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: Hey guys. It's me first time writing fanfiction so please go easy one me… and please leave me some comments/suggestions/whatevers so you can help me improve. Thanks! _

**Gendry**

"Six strokes." Gendry announced, eagerly shaking the three gold dragons he held in one fist. The other clenched his breeches tightly on one knee as he, Lem, Anguy, and Tom craned their necks and cheered on the two armor-clad fighters sparring by the river. They were wearing similar armor and helms—plain, dented, chipped and varying shades of dull silver whilst they fought with blunt tourney swords and faded, battered shields. The onlookers' laughter, the sound of metal clanging against metal, feet shuffling on dirt and rocks, birds chirping and the steady bubbling of the river were the only sounds to be heard throughout the forest. That spot by the river was one the group had claimed for themselves as their favorite haunt.

They were almost of the same height. One fighter was fat, his sides bulging from the sides of the strapped armor he wore, while the other noticeably stick-thin, from the way the armor hung rather loosely from the slim frame—it was armor clearly built for someone of a larger build.

"Eight." Lem called, scratching his broken nose, his eyes never leaving the two.

"One day I should make a song out o' this." Tom said.

Of the two fighters, however, one was clearly winning—it was only a matter of how long it took that the four spectators bet against each other for. The fat one's short and stunted legs buckled and bent now, tired as he was, every time he exchanged blows with his opponent. He blocked the attacks with more difficulty now—with his shield, parried with his sword, but the blows came one after another that soon he was too tired to keep up.

When the thin one fought, from the perspective of an audience, it looked almost as if in an elaborate dance. The fighter moved about relentlessly, striking from all places calm and almost effortlessly—fluid, the opponent unable to do anything other than block and back away closer to the edge of the river.

_One, _flat end of the swordto the left knee. The fat one lost his balance.

_Two, _to the left rib area.

_Three, _this time to the right.

_Four, _shield to the stomach.

_Five, _a blow to the side of the head.

And finally _six, _a clipping sweep underneath until the other fell into the shallow of the river, his arse on the ground, sword pointed down his throat.

"I _yield, _I _yield!" _Hot Pie yelled as he threw down his sword and shield to the ground next to him and pulled off his helm, his dark hair plastered with sweat to his forehead and his cheeks bright red as he huffed and puffed, trying to get his breath back.

"Six." Gendry smiled. "I believe you owe me, good sers." Lem, Anguy and Tom all gave disappointed grunts as they placed their coins on the palm of Gendry's open hand. Gendry balled his hand into a fist and cheerfully jangled the coins before he shoved them into his pocket, giving it a loving pat.

"Oh, not again Hot Pie. You don't ever change. Can't you at least put up more of a fight?" Arya said with a laugh as she sheathed her own tourney sword, placed the shield on the rocky ground. She held a gloved hand towards Hot Pie and helped him up on his feet. Then she pulled off her helmet with a grunt, her breath visible in the air as she exhaled in the chilly forest air.

As a child, she had always been called _Arya Horseface, _but at ten-and-seven, womanhood had been kind to Arya—not that she cared, anyway. Arya did not possess the graceful and elegant beauty the same her older sister Sansa had, but Arya had her own sort of beauty.

She had always had more of the Stark look in her than Tully. Of the five Stark children—excluding her bastard brother Jon Snow—Arya was the only one who inherited the looks of her father Ned Stark. At childhood, she resembled a boy, if anything, but at seventeen Arya had changed considerably. Her face still had the quality of her father's in it, but with softer features like she was almost caught between being handsome and beautiful. Arya's cheeks were always flushed a light pinkish hue which complemented her fair and smooth skin well—even brighter when she was exhausted from a fight. Arya was as stick-thin as she ever was at childhood, but less scrawny—curving gently in all the right places, not as desirable but sufficient. She had her father's notable grey eyes framed in thick lashes. Her lips were normal enough, her teeth somewhat crooked from all the rough handling she'd experienced as a young girl, but it was soon enough forgotten the moment her mouth broke into a smile. Fierce and wild, but pretty all the same—like the she-wolf that she was.

Arya preferred to wear her hair short because she didn't like to brush it too often, and it was least likely to get in the way, but all the same she disliked just as much to always being mistaken for a boy growing up—she had grown it ever since, but not too long. Now her hair grew ways lower than the back of her neck, but not all the way down to the middle of her back. Normally she wore it in a simple braid. Locks of loose hair fell around her face, drenched with sweat from the fighting. She wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her gloved hand.

"M'lady, may I take your helm?" Arya hadn't noticed when he'd gotten there. He took a mocking bow and smiled widely at Arya. Five years older than her, Gendry now stood a head and a half taller than hair so that she had to tilt her head up a little to look him full in the face. Gendry had grown leaner just as he had grown taller. His sleeves stretched with the muscle of his arms—the size of about three of Arya's. His chest was broad, his legs long and strong as his smith's arms and his chin hard-chiseled, with just the faintest hint of dark stubble, as dark as his raven-black hair, the same as when he and Arya first met at King's Landing with Yoren, on their way to the Wall. He deserved the nickname _The Bull _even more now. Gendry had a nice, manly face. Arya had never noticed all the years she'd known him. Gendry had always been good-looking enough, and growing older had done nothing to change that—if not to enhance it. Half the village and the serving girls all pined after him, but he had always seemed uninterested and indifferent.

No one had ever quite understood it, but Gendry decided he preferred better up in Winterfell even when he was offered a place at King's Landing—again—or wherever he wished, being cleared of his name bastard's name _Waters _as King Robert's natural son.

He was no longer Gendry Waters, but Gendry Baratheon.

And he was the soon-to-be-heir of Dragonstone, given that King Stannis could sire no children. It wasn't something Gendry ever wanted, but it was his duty. He would bide his time carefully before the time came that he had to shoulder the burdens of a ruler that came with his father's name. Stannis had allowed him to stay in Winterfell, given that he would learn from Robb, and that he would keep his duty in mind

Gendry grew up in King's Landing, he never had any sort of fondness for the place—familiarity, if anything at all. But that was all there was. Gendry had had his share of explorations in parts of the Seven Kingdoms, and he found that Winterfell was to his taste—perhaps not warm enough, but given the work he did, it didn't seem to matter too much. The Young Wolf—King Robb Stark, had welcomed him with open arms. It was what his father Ned Stark would have done, he said. In the three years he had been in Winterfell, Gendry had grown close to the Starks—Robb, Bran, Rickon, and even Jon Snow on his timely visits to Winterfell. Gendry was offered all sorts of titles and places in the council and the garrison, but he denied them all—his true passion, after all, was being a blacksmith. It was certainly a pastime unbefitting someone of his rank and name, but Gendry insisted on it. Gendry focused mostly on his work during his free time away from Robb's side as he learned the ways of a ruler, and as the years passed it seemed fruitful—Gendry's works were well-known throughout the kingdoms for their quality and simplistic beauty. He received commissions all the time, but Gendry always declined if he did not feel like it. It was how he had earned the nickname the _Blacksmith Prince. _He stayed there along with his friends from the Outlaws—Tom, the court singer, Hot Pie who worked in the kitchens, Anguy and Lem who were serjeants in the Northern garrison.

"I'm _not _your lady!" Arya grunted, shouldering her way past Gendry and instead of shoving him aside, all she did was hurt herself, even through the loose armor that made her shoulder feel even heavier after the blow. Gendry stood like a leaf had brushed past him. Gendry had always been too big for her. And strong, most of all. Gendry crossed his arms over his chest and laughed hard.

"As m'lady commands." He replied, still laughing, turning his head and following Arya with his eyes as she stomped off to a nearby tree like some defeated child.

_She hasn't changed at all, _he said to himself. He had always managed to piss her off with the same jibes again and again all the years he had known her. He found the thought amusing. From the day they first met at King's Landing on the way to the Night's Watch, from the day he found she was a girl, when he found out she was Arya Stark of Winterfell and not Arry the Orphan Boy, in the woods to Harrenhal and all sorts of places, and even a few years later, Arya almost a woman grown and him a man, and still she had not changed.

His oldest friend.

Stubborn and wild and brusque and far from lady-like as she was, Gendry loved that the most about Arya.

"Well, come on then, you lot! We've all got work to do!" she barked at them to follow her back.

Still laughing, he turned his head around, following Arya with his eyes as she stomped off and away from the river, intending to go back to the castle grounds.

"Coming, your Highness." He yelled back, watching as Anguy and Hot Pie paced along hurriedly to walk beside her.

"Beautiful, ain't she? And she don't even know it." Tom said, nudging Gendry in the shoulder with his harp. Gendry snorted.

"Manly, you mean. She'd probably end up marrying a bear if she gets lucky." He said with a shrug. Tom and Lem looked at each other with raised eyebrows and a condescending look towards Gendry. Lem thumped him hard on the back of the head and Tom kicked him on the shin. Gendry was too large and strong to be that much hurt, but he was surprised nonetheless.

"_Oww. _What in seven hells—" he cursed, rubbing the back of his head as the two walked ahead of him without another word.

"For such a smart lad you can be very stupid sometimes, your lordship. Now, come along before that lady of yours gets any more worked up."

"Lady, my arse." He muttered under his breath before jogging off to follow them back to the castle.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: THE STORY HAS FOLLOWERS! Oh my goodness, thank you all, lovely people! I never expected I'd get anywhere with this but now I have the proper motivation to go on. : SO, anyway, here's a little disclaimer: I know I put the story under the TV shows category, but I used the name Jeyne Westerling rather than Talisa. I wanted to type Talisa but I kept on typing Jeyne instead so eventually I give up. Have fun._

**2. Arya**

Arya had a tub of hot water prepared as soon as she had gone inside the castle. She stayed inside for what must have been more than an hour, letting the warmth of the water relax the knots in her muscles, soothe her scalp and soak her long hair as it spread over the water. After a little while, she had unknowingly fallen asleep, and then she was jolted awake by a knock on the door.

"Arya?" A voice on the other side called. Arya recognized it to be her sister-in-law, Jeyne Westerling. She and Arya had grown close during the girl's time in Winterfell—not at all what Arya expected from a queen. She was more like an older sister to Arya than Sansa ever was, although the girls had grown more civil to each other as they got older.

"My lady? Just let me get dressed." Arya said, stepping out of a tub and patting herself dry with a towel and putting on a simple white cotton dress. She never felt the need to be too adorned around Jeyne. When she was done, she walked over to the door and opened it for the queen. As soon as she opened it, Jeyne embraced her and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. Arya smiled back radiantly and stepped aside to let the girl in.

"Your brother calls for you."

"Does he now? I'd better find my—"

"Oh, hush now he's in no hurry. Come, let me fix your hair for you." Jeyne went inside Arya's chambers and took the hair brush that sat untouched on top of her dresser. She seated herself on the bed, patting the space beside her with a smile as she beckoned Arya to sit next to her. Arya went obediently. They sat in silence for a while as Jeyne ran the brush through her long, damp hair until it was smooth and untangled.

"What does Robb want?"Arya asked, harmlessly enough. She never liked surprises.

"I think it best he told you himself, dove." Jeyne replied with a mysterious tone in her voice. Arya shrugged, and once again it was quiet—what Arya liked the most about Jeyne was that, like her, silence didn't feel bothering to her whereas other girls always felt the need to prattle on and on and on about things Arya didn't care about. She looked out the window listlessly as Jeyne twined her fingers around the locks of her hair, twisting it into one elaborate braid and tied the end.

"There, it's done." She proclaimed happily, hopping off the bed and standing in front of Arya.

"Thank you, my lady." Arya thanked her with a smile and the queen giggled.

"You're much prettier when you smile." She remarked. Arya felt herself blush a little, so she laughed it off instead. Arya never really bought it, especially not with all the things she'd been called in her childhood days—and especially not when all her life she'd been compared to her sister Sansa. Not that it bothered her. _I'd rather be ugly than weak, _Arya always told herself that and she'd been happy.

"Now, let's go and see your brother." The queen said, looping her arm around Arya's as they descended the stairs.

When Arya and Jeyne had arrived in the Great Hall, they had found Robb sitting quietly on the long table while servants bustled about, bringing in plates of food and drink until Robb had given them a polite dismissal.

Robb—_King _Robb now, was a man grown. He was tall, standing something around six feet, and during his seasoning as a warrior he had grown noticeably leaner. His chest was broad and hard, the muscles on his arms and legs thick and finely sculpted, visible even from the layer of clothes he wore. He had cut his hair shorter—more closely cropped to his skull, but nevertheless wild and somewhat unkempt. It suited him better that way. His chin was square, no longer covered in peach fuzz but thick, dark and coarse stubble. His overall air assimilated his stature as a king—hard and stern. It would remind someone of the way his father Ned Stark had been. His features, however, changed when he smiled warmly at the two girls upon seeing them arrive. He strode quickly towards them, greeting his lady wife with a quick but affectionate kiss upon the lips. He stopped, examining Arya from head to toe with an amused grin on his face. Then he chuckled and tousled her hair affectionately—as he had always done for as long as Arya could remember. She laughed, and then swatter his hand away playfully.

"Is that how you treat your _king, _girl?" Robb jested.

"If the king's an arse, yes." She returned, hugging him. Robb was always so busy with his work that Arya hardly ever saw him, and she took the chance now while he had the time for her.

"You've grown, Arya. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to that."

"You better."

"Yes—but look at you, stick-thin as ever. They'll say that I am starving my little sister." He said, leading the two of them towards the table to dine.

They supped in good spirits, exchanging all sorts of stories between them over food and the Great Hall was filled with their laughter. Only when the food was cleared away and replaced with wine and sweets to go down with it that official business was finally discussed.

"Arya, I have news to tell you." Robb said, his voice none too serious but considerably more formal, taking one last sip on his wine cup before he folded his hands in front of him. He cleared his throat before looking at Arya with a strange look on his face. Suddenly he felt her insides knot just a little, wondering what it was that Robb had to tell her. She took another sip of wine to calm herself down, hoping that whatever it was, was something good. Finally she put the cup down and straightened her back.

"You're getting married."

It was the worst thing Arya could ever hear from him.

If she had been just a few years younger, what she would have done was leap across the table and run away into the godswood—maybe practice swordplay, archery or go out hunting—Anything but deal with betrothals, marriages and whatnot.

But Arya was old enough now to know she would have to face the problem sooner or later. She was not a weak, and only weaklings and cravens ran away from their problems. Marriage was simply one of those problems, being a girl both _and _a lady of high stature. Instead she poured herself another full cup of wine, drained it as soon as it she had filled it, set it down roughly—then she threw her head back, closed her eyes and pouted. Robb and Jeyne could do nothing but watch her with blank eyes and raised eyebrows. She let out a sharp sigh, fighting back the urge to leap out of the window and do what she wanted. She looked towards her brother and asked him in a strained voice.

"To whom?"

The last time Robb had placed a betrothal in front of her, it had been to Tommen Baratheon. _For the good of the realm, _Robb had said. It was the price that came with peace—peace between the Lannisters and Starks. Robb found Robert Baratheon's two younger children more tolerable than the eldest—and more tolerable than the older Lannisters, but he disliked them still nonetheless. Arya violently refused to marry Tommen. Instead, Bran had spoken up and offered to marry Princess Myrcella. Casterly Rock had agreed to the union. Robb had agreed to let Arya refuse only upon the condition that when the next marriage proposal came—one of Robb's choosing, Arya would have to oblige. She only had to look at Robb's eyes to know that it was time to honor that debt.

"Quentyn Martell—I thought you'd like that better." He said. Robb Stark knew how much his sister hated marriage talks, and for that he searched for a match generous both for the welfare of his kingdom and to his sister. Arya felt that. She and Quentyn Martell were friends—he wasn't hard to look at, he had a likable enough personality and most of all, he was a good warrior and ruler as well. But she did not like him well enough to want to _marry _him.

"Quentyn's my _friend, _Robb! How do you expect me to marry him?" she said with a raised voice.

"Sansa's already married Loras Tyrell, Arya. She has a nice, settled life and not a lot more to worry about in the future." Arya rolled her eyes at the suggestion.

"Robb—please. Don't act like you don't know that Sansa and I don't want the same thing. Loras Tyrell is still in love with King Renly and I don't understand how she'd settle for Loras's sweet-talking and all that horse manure. I don't want _that _at all." Robb Stark sighed audibly and rubbed his temples, slightly unsure of what argument to next throw at his sister. It was so hard to get through to her with this sort of thing. Years later and she was still the same in that aspect.

"Arya—we had a deal. It's the fact that Quentyn is your friend that could make things easier. I found you an easy enough match to swallow—would you like to marry to Tommen Baratheon instead, much like the last time?" Robb said quietly. Arya could be hard to reason with sometimes, but patience was a trait Robb had slowly begun to master as the ruler to a kingdom. He paused to refill his wine cup. He took a deep swallow and continued.

"I think I've been generous enough, sister—it's time you upheld your part of the bargain." He said with finality in his voice. Arya had been looking down on the floor the entire time and finally she could take it no longer.

"But you married _Jeyne, _didn't you Robb?" she covered her mouth as soon as the words had poured out of her. She should not have gone there. Robb's face froze, a vein in his temple throbbed. Silence stunned the hall for what seemed like a lifetime before Jeyne Westerling's laughter broke it. She took Robb's hand in hers and kissed it while she laughed.

"She's your sister true and true, my love." She giggled. Robb, managed to crack a smile, looking down and shaking his head. He kissed his wife's hand before turning back to Arya who still burned bright red from embarrassment.

"Fair enough—you win. Thank the gods I love you far too much, sister. Which then begs the question—if you won't have Quentyn, do you have anybody else in mind?" this time it was Arya's turn to freeze. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened a crack. She bit her lip and looked to her brother.

"W-well… no, I-I… there isn't anyone." She mumbled. Arya enjoyed being a free spirit, and marriage would tie her down and away from the life she now led and loved. She didn't have anyone in mind—marriage was so far off from her thoughts that she never even considered she'd have to do it sooner or later. Her head throbbed and she felt sick. For a moment she wished that she was ten years old again, when she did not have to worry about these things so soon. Her thoughts went back to the present when Robb clapped his hands together once.

"Well then—our deal remains intact, then, if that's the case. Matter settled." He proclaimed in a light tone. Arya could never hate her brother—she was lucky to have him. She suddenly realized how selfish she was. He had taken troubles to find a likable match for her and she had received it with such ungratefulness.

He heaved himself up from his chair with a yawn before stooping over and dropping a kiss on her forehead, her eyes still cast down on the floor.

"Have yourself a good night, Arya. Don't worry about it too much. You won't be married in a year's time or two—the children come even much later on." He said as he walked away from the table, Jeyne beside him. Reality dawned on her the moment the great doors swung shut and servants came in to clear the table.

Arya had stood up from her chair as if a snake had bitten her—so quick that she had startled the servants—and then she ran from the hall and out into the gardens where the twilight had painted the surroundings warm shades of red and orange. Her thoughts came over quickly to the godswood she loved so much, and that was where her legs took her.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Hi guys. I hope I'm not updating too fast and I hope I don't run out of ideas any time soon… God forbid I do. D: Well anway, here. Have a little bit of a flashback before I move things along a little bit more._

**Chapter 3: Gendry**

Gendry hammered at the sword one last time with all his strength before he finally set his tools aside. He pulled an old, battered and termite-eaten stool close to him with his boot and sat down. He sighed audibly, satisfied with a productive day's worth of hard work, wiping the heavy torrents of sweat that covered his forehead before he took off his leather jerkin and let the heat steam out of his body. Gendry looked down on a floor, the sweat making its way from his hair, plastered together in heavy locks, to his forehead, and then to the tip of his nose and then to small, dark spatters on the floor of the smithy.

He watched the spatters on the floor increase idly for a while before he raised his head again, wiping more sweat away from his brows, and ran his eyes across the space of his smithy. Among all his tools and creations, his eyes focused on a shiny silver bull's helm resting on a wooden shelf bolted to the wall. Often times Gendry sometimes still considered the bull's helm as one of his finest creations. He stood up, taking the helmet carefully into his hands. He then took an oil cloth from the table beside him before he resumed his place on the wooden stool. Gendry still made a habit of polishing the piece of metal from time to time. It was, in a way, his lucky charm. He had lost the helmet more than once, but somehow it had always found its way back to him. When he was done, he put the oil cloth aside and raised the helmet, watching the sunlight streaming in from the window as it played on the metallic surface of the bull's head, from its nose, its horns. It had more dents and scratches than he remembered, but it was the only thing he had kept with him from his old life—not his _old _life, not really, more of his first life. Back when he was just a simple blacksmith's apprentice in King's Landing. Things had changed since then. He always wished for his old life back during the times when he was with Arya and the lost boys—back when they were supposed to make for the wall with Yoren, but things got ugly. It was a hard life surviving, Harrnehal was more pleasant, a life with the Outlaws less so, but Gendry couldn't complain. Not now. He couldn't complain about what had turned out after all of it was over.

The biggest surprise, of course, was learning that he was actually the son of the last king to the Iron Throne—his only legitimate son, if baseborn, after Joffrey and Cersei Lannister put to death all of Robert Baratheon's bastards and after it was concluded that none of Cersei's Lannister children had any Baratheon blood in them. Joffrey Lannister was poisoned, Renly Baratheon won back the Iron Throne and let all the kings keep their titles and fixed the world with peace treaties and alliances and that was the end of it. Knees were bent and lands and lordships and knighthoods were granted and heads were lopped off and things were slowly mending in the Seven Kingdoms. Gendry was called forth to court in King's Landing and that was when he found out about his lineage in a long-lost letter Jon Arryn had written. It would explain the visit from the King's Hands—both from Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark. He wasn't sure be believed it. He was surprised and slightly afraid because although he lived his life as a commoner, he knew how it was with nobility. All their scheming and their games of thrones. He was probably going to get the headsman.

Things turned out much better than expected—for some strange reason, Renly Baratheon was kind to him. Gendry thought he was a queer sort of fellow but he found a strange liking to the man. To his _uncle. _After all, he had been the one to fix the mess the Seven Kingdoms had made. Looking at Renly and Stannis Baratheon the resemblances here and there slightly dawned on them. He puzzled the pieces together—although Margaery Tyrell was pregnant, technically he had the best claim to the Iron Throne. Gendry cut them all off before anyone had ever even spoken.

"I'm only Robert Baratheon's bastard, I want no part in this." Renly Baratheon had laughed.

"Hush, nephew. I only called you here to make sure that my brother Robert's last son is well taken care of. Family is important to us, Gendry. There aren't a lot left in the male line of House Baratheon. I'd like to give you the name, you see." Gendry was silent. Renly paused to take a sip of wine and smiled before resuming his talk again.

"Now, I'm afraid I cannot hand over the Iron Throne to you, but we do, however, have some other concerns. As things stand, my brother Stannis can no longer sire any children, and I would in fact like you to be his next heir." Renly said it as if he were offering Gendry a nibble of cheese. Gendry's eyes darted sideways in a slight flurry of panic and emotion. Was this some sort of noble joke he wasn't getting? The king chuckled.

"Oh, the look on your face, nephew. This is not a trick. You have my word for it. Truly, I'd like to give you a comfortable life. One that was long owed to you. I've heard of the things you've been through. Now, you can say no if that is what you want—however, it would help the kingdom greatly in terms of balance were you to say yes. As for the issue of your name, though, I am giving it you whether you like it or not." Renly's eyes crinkled in amusement, his smile intact as he rested his elbow on the arm of his seat, and then his cheek on the palm of his hand.

"I—sire, I don't know what to say, believe me…"

"Call me uncle—I insist. Oh, it is quite alright. Three days. Stay here in King's Landing with me. I'll have your answer by then."

Three days later, he _did_ say yes.

In those three days he had gotten to know Renly Baratheon—Renly was a vain and grandiose man—much like Robert, truth be told, except for the excessive drinking— but he had begun to understand why the man was so well-loved. He had no taste for sly games—now that Cersei Lannister, Littlefinger and Varys were out of the picture there was no need for them— and his was an honest rule. He was not as much a great king as he was a generous king, but in Gendry's opinion that was what the Seven Kingdoms needed at the moment. It made him think that he wanted to help common people such as himself—being one, it made him better suited for the job. With enough motivation and enough reassurances that lordship wasn't what he thought it would be, he finally said yes. Renly required that he be taught, however, and offered Gendry a place in King's Landing or if not—tutelage from any other ruler in the Seven Kingdoms. Gendry had opted for Winterfell. Stannis insisted on a place by his side but eventually they had come to an agreement. Both strongly admired Eddard Stark's principles as a ruler, and the Young Wolf had taken to them very well—even more so that now he was older, and wiser. Renly had also obliged, and now here he was.

Gendry's reminiscing was cut short by a knock on the door.

"Come in." he called. The door opened and Jeyne Stark entered. Suddenly Gendry was in a flurry.

"My lady—" He said. No longer _m'lady, _one of the things he had learned from his lessons was to correct the way he said the two words. He only used the other one with Arya. Gendry was embarrassed. He was half-naked, unkempt, and covered in sweat and grime in front of the queen. Jeyne began to laugh.

"It's quite alright. I didn't mean to intrude on you while you were working… but I needed to ask if you knew where Lady Arya was?" she asked, tilting her head to one side and folding her hands together in front of her. Gendry quickly pulled over his jerkin and scratched his head.

"If she's just ran away from her septa, you'll find her by the clearing in the woods. With a sword, most like. Or two. Perhaps she's abusing Hot Pie with it."

"She hasn't."

"If she was supposed to have a dress tailored or something of the sort, then she's hiding out in the kitchens. Eating… and a lot, mind you. She'll eat just as much for supper."

"Nothing of the sort."

Gendry sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and raising his head up to the ceiling in thought.

"Court, manners—then she's out hunting."

"No."

Gendry grunted to himself, not noticing that Jeyne was trying to stifle a giggle.

"Did she have a fight?" Gendry said with a snap of his fingers, almost sounding victorious.

"With Robb, yes."

"Well then, you'll find her in the godswood, my lady." He said with a coy smile, bowing his head. Jeyne chuckled.

"How do you know these things, Gendry Baratheon?" she asked him, amusement all over her voice and face, a hand placed gingerly over her lips as she waited for his answer.

Gendry thought—well, he didn't actually _know _how he knew these things. Just that he did. He'd known Arya just as long as anyone but for some reason, he could always predict the way she thought, only realizing it now. He shook his head and shrugged.

"Don't know, my lady. I've known her a while. And brutes think alike, I expect." He said with a grin that Jeyne returned.

"Yes, I suppose they do. Thank you very much for your help."

"You're most welcome."

The queen shut the door behind her quietly and Gendry went back to his work, whistling, wondering vaguely what it was Arya and Robb had fought over. He would have to ask her later in case she was upset.


	4. Chapter 4

___Author's Note: This is my shortest chapter by far. I got a little bit stuck on a few details, so in the meantime have this.  
_

**Chapter 4: Arya**

As soon as she had arrived, Arya pulled the band that secured her braid. She felt most comfortable with her flowing free. She then sat down on the soft forest floor of the godswood, resting her arms and her head on the spot her lord father had been so fond of when he was still alive. She raised her eyes up to look at the face carved into the weirwood's thin and pale white trunk: distraught—grotesque, even, but Arya had taken to worshipping the same gods her father had. It was a place she had grown to find solace in. It was the north in her, she supposed. Of all Eddard Stark's children Arya resembled him the most—more Stark in her and hardly any Tully at all. It was no surprise she would have a sort of unconscious inclination to worship the Northern gods just as well.

The face in the tree had been somewhat of a friend to her each time she came back to that very same place in her time of need. Now was one of those direst times. She rested her cheek on her arm, cherishing the quiet air of the godswood while she attempted to clear her thoughts—to no avail. Instead she buried her face deeper in her arms, hoping she would fall asleep and dream her favorite wolf dreams and her dreams of adventure and wake up to a different life.

Her head shot up at the sound of foreign footsteps, soft and light, crunching gently against the fallen leaves upon the ground. It was Jeyne Westerling. Arya buried her face in her arms again while Jeyne proceeded to take a seat close to her. She laid a comforting hand on top of her head, gently caressing her hair with her thumb.

"I'm so sorry, Jeyne. I never meant to." She said, her voice muffled as she still could not bear to look at her sister-in-law. Jeyne answered her with a chuckle.

"Arya, look at me. _Look at me." _She beckoned gently. Arya finally turned her head with a pout.

"It's alright—there is nothing to be ashamed of, neither from you nor from me."

"But what I said—"

"—Was the _truth. _That, however, I believe—is one of the sides I love most about what happened to your brother and I." her eyes were brighter for a moment, her smile radiant, as if she was calling into mind a private, distant and cherished memory of her and Robb.

"Besides—you hit Robb where it hurt the most, did you not?" she continued with a grin. Arya couldn't help but laugh.

"I think I did." And then the two laughed together. They were silent for a few moments before Arya finally spoke.

"I don't want to marry Quentyn—I don't want to marry _anyone."_

"What is it about marriage that frightens you so much, girl? Besides childbirth, of course—that is to be expected." Jeyne replied with a smile, simply to keep the air between them light. Arya had never herself understood exactly what it is about marriages that frightened her so much, but she could at least name a few reasons.

"I don't want to stay put in a castle and try on dresses and sew all day—I don't want to wait for my husband to come home and the only thing I'll ever be useful for is to _please _him with stupid chitchat and use me to give him sons like hens give eggs to farmers. _I don't want that." _Arya almost yelled. Jeyne pondered Arya's reply for while, her eyes distant and her face frozen in a thoughtful expression. Then she turned her head and smiled slyly at Arya.

"Not if you marry the _right _one. He won't let you live a life you don't want. If you told Robb there was someone else you wanted to marry, he'll permit it."

"Yes, I know."

"Tell me—have you ever been in love?" the question caught Arya off-guard. Not only had she never been interested or needy in that subject, but she had never really had close enough lady friends to bother her with the question. Arya snorted, her face twisting into such a ridiculous look that Jeyne could not help but laugh. Arya laughed with her.

"Come on, you can tell me." She urged on.

"No—of course not. What a waste of time."

"Are you sure?"

"_Yes."_

"You mean there's no one?"

"_No._"

"None at all?"

"_None."_

"Ever?"

"_Ever."_

"Not even a _certain_ tall, lean and dark-haired young man my lady seems so fond of?" Jeyne retorted, her lips curled up into a smug smile and her eyebrows were raised in twisted amusement. That made Arya stop for a while, leaving her mouth slightly agape and her face slightly flushed. Her wits came back to her only when Jeyne broke out in laughter.

"Gendry's my oldest _friend._" She replied acidly, slapping her forehead with her hand. This wasn't the first time anybody had tried to put two and two together where her friendship with Gendry was concerned. She never understood why. As far as she was concerned, Gendry was the biggest and dumbest bully she had known the longest. And as far as _he _was concerned, Arya was a man who put on skirts from time to time.

"I never _mentioned _Gendry." Arya's face brightened even more. She rolled her eyes and gestured vaguely at Jeyne's accusations. Stupid and pigheaded and bully that he was, he was one of her closest friends.

"Seven hells. Anyone but the _bull._ I'd pick Quentyn Martell any day._"_

"Alright, alright—if you _say _so. You best be quick about it, though. That one's never short of admirers."

"I don't _care." _Jeyne Westerling laughed.

"But I know I'm not a child anymore—I made a promise to Robb, and as a Stark I have a duty to live up to. Nobility has its price and though I never chose this life, I love my family—so I guess I _have _to pay it. I don't love Quentyn that way and I'm sure he doesn't love me _that _way, either. It was Sansa he was in love with. But if I have to marry Quent, then I will." She paused, her tone suddenly serious.

"As for holing up in the castle and expecting me like some weak princess—I trust I'm capable enough to beat him up if ever he decides to subject me to it." She said with a wicked grin.

"That's the Arya Stark I know." Jeyne answered with a grin of her own.

"It's getting dark, now come along." She beckoned to the younger girl as she stood up and tugged at her arm gently as they walked away from the weirwood and back to the castle.

"It doesn't have to be _Quentyn, _though."


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: Hey everyone! I'm so terribly sorry for the long hiatus, but… I was kind of running low on jet fuel and I had my exams so I had to take a rather long break. But anyway it's Christmas break and I have some more time in my hands! And I'd really like to thank everyone who stuck with Songs of the North this far down… so here's a chapter! It's rather short, but… I do believe I have a surprise ready for everyone. Best regards to all!_

**Chapter 5: Gendry**

Gendry had never accustomed himself to sitting at the high table during meals.

Truth be told, Gendry had never really taken into habit anything a son of high birth should be taking to—at least not when he had to. Of all the things that Gendry learned for his studies to be a ruler, it was the art of lying. Not that sort, anyway. Simply the art of presenting himself in social gatherings to pampered lords and ladies and learning how to handle them which, he learned—was mostly courteous chitchat and then eating and drinking in silence for the rest of the night Both his benefactors Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark had an utter dislike for the sort of thing, same as Gendry, and out of sympathy Robb was not overly strict with such things when there were no guests to please or nobles to entertain in Winterfell. He took into heart the better lessons and painstakingly pretended his way through the rest. Gendry had always understood why—his bastardry meant that he had a name to make for himself.

Tonight was the same as any other night at supper in Winterfell—Robb, Jeyne, Bran and Rickon Stark seated on the high table, the king and queen discussing matters to themselves—nothing seemingly serious. Robb preferred to leave those behind when he was with his wife. Both their faces were bright with grins and laughter. The two younger Stark boys were chatting happily to one another. Gendry, meanwhile, had taken to eating at a long table a little ways from the table where he, by rights, should be seated. He never really thought it mattered—it was just eating. And here in Winterfell, everybody got the same sort of treatment even in the matter of meals. He preferred to be seated with his friends—Lem, Tom, Anguy.

The great hall was filled with music and laughter, and Gendry ate his meal in silence. Capons drenched in buttery sauce with mushrooms, peas, carrots, corn, and potatoes.

Gendry hated mushrooms.

When a dish visibly had them, he would always spoon them all in a pile in a corner of his plate, but he never had to worry about them because Arya always took the mushrooms. She took _everyone's _mushrooms. Tonight, however, they sat untouched on his plate and that was when he realized that Arya Stark was nowhere to be found. The rest of his friends were drunk—singing to themselves and telling all sorts of stories drunkards tell and nobody would have noticed if he left the table. Gendry remembered Queen Jeyne's visit to him earlier that same afternoon—_she had a fight with Robb. _Gendry unconsciously creased his forehead.

Arya and Robb Stark hardly ever fought.

From what he'd heard, Arya had always been Robb's favorite sister. Her love for adventure and imminent lack of feminine qualities had always favored Arya to her older brothers. And with the death of their father Ned Stark and all the long years the Stark children had been pried away from each other—not knowing if one was dead or alive—had served to bring them closer. Somehow it had made him slightly jealous of their relationship, growing up with no father, no siblings, and only ever finding friends just when his life was turned upside down.

Arya and Robb Stark hardly ever fought.

Although on occasion, they would—Gendry was not one to ask why. Arya would tell him herself if she wanted to, and on most times it would not ever be about something of too big an importance, and usually they would get along again as soon as they had fought.

Gendry quietly pushed the empty plate—save for a small clump of mushrooms—away from him and stood up from the long wooden bench as discreetly as he could. He didn't exactly know where to look for her—or _why _he was going to look for her in the first place.

Gendry wasn't really in the mood for merrymaking that night, and on nights like these he looked for Arya's company the most. No particular reason why, just that it had always been a sort of thing between them since he could remember. Gendry had known a sort of companionship with Arya like he had with no one else—he had, after all, kept her secret about her gender and birth the entire time they were on the run since Yoren had been killed and they were left to fend for themselves. Plus, with her he could actually talk about things that made sense. The two had quite literally gone through blood and dirt, and excluding Hot Pie, she was his oldest friend. More like an inexorably annoying thing, but a friend. She'd saved his life and the other way around more times than either could count. And if there was anything Gendry had learned—the best friends you will ever have are those who did not make you feel like you owed them a thing.

In a few moments he was safely out of the hall unnoticed—he took a bottle of ale and two cups with him for good measure. He opened the great wooden doors and nodded curtly to the two guards posted outside, and they acknowledged him in greeting. Gendry stuffed his hands in his pockets—it was a chilly night, like most in Winterfell, but tonight seemed just a wee bit colder and he watched his misting breath in the air, tilting his chin up as he walked, not knowing where his legs would take him. He had a feeling he'd find Arya inside her chamber upstairs, so he headed there and if he did not find Arya there—Gendry decided he would retire for the night.

It was long walk up all the stairs, and the castle was abandoned for the most part save for a few servants and guards traipsing about. Eventually he reached her door, and he knocked thrice on the door without saying a word.

"I'm not hungry and I'm tired, thank you." Came the muffled answer behind the door. Gendry scratched the back of his ear, and he suddenly remembered something he had not done in a while. He knocked on the door again, this time with a certain rhythmic pattern and then he waited, folding his hands behind his back and staring up at the ceiling. For a while it was silent, as if the person on the of the door was struggling to remember as well. And then Arya opened the door gingerly, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at the sight of Gendry.

"What brings you here, Lord Bull?"

Gendry couldn't help but snort. He brought out his offerings and waved them in front of her.

"I thought you could use some company. And a drink."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Arya**

Arya sighed.

"Gendry, not now." She said as gently as she could—she wasn't in the mood for a mouth off and really, she had hoped for some time alone without tiring herself out too much. A little bit of thinking this and that, then straight to sleep as soon as she was sick of all the thoughts in her head. Arya was quite certain she was going to have a night like that as planned—but all of a sudden Gendry's boot was blocking her door on the last minute. Gendry sighed, tousling his hair awkwardly the way she knew he did when he was trying to make out anything that he wanted to say.

"I heard about Robb." Gendry said with a shrug, looking at Arya almost expectantly. She knew Gendry would never admit it, but sometimes it got him worried when she was upset about something—just like she was the other way around. It was a constant between the two of them, and with the rough life the both of them led for most of their earlier years, you could hardly blame them. They had no one but each other to rely on and they found it best to talk about things even though neither of them enjoyed it. _"Sheltered little lords' girls do that. Like gossiping. It's pathetic." _She remembered herself saying at one point with amusement, and Gendry agreed wholeheartedly and they simply laughing the matter off. Nevertheless they _did _do it on occasion. Given what they knew about each other—what worse things could they possibly keep hidden?

Arya suddenly found herself smiling.

"Concerned are you?" she taunted.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself." Gendry retorted, folding his muscular arms across his chest. Arya sighed, her tone suddenly growing serious.

"It's nothing serious, Gendry. Nothing out of the usual. You don't need to check if I'm still sane." She said. Gendry gave her a smile of his own.

"Oh, I'm not. Like I said—don't flatter yourself. As it so happens I _am _a little bit lonely this night and I'm in want of company with a little more brains than the lot I need to put up with downstairs." _Gendry would never admit it. _Although this was definitely not the first time they'd had a satisfying drink up in her room away from the chaos of other people.

"_No use arguing, I think." _Arya mused to herself just as she was about to come up with another excuse. She began to reconsider—maybe she _could _use the company, especially one she was as comfortable and used to as Gendry's. And she was lying to herself, besides, she though: it wasn't the usual thing. Not at all. But she resolved not to tell him anything directly about it. He could find out about that himself later on, but it wasn't going to come from her. Not that he would understand, anyway.

"Give me a minute." She shut the door without waiting for his answer. She inspected herself to see if she was dressed properly to receive any company. She was still wearing her tunic and breeches. If she was going to stay holed up in her room anyway, she might as well do it comfortable. Deciding it was alright, she opened the door again. With a pout and sigh, she mussed up her hair and stepped aside.

"Oh, alright. There's no reasoning with you. Mutton-head."

Gendry grinned, taking a mocking bow of his head before proceeding to enter the room.

"Now there's a courteous lady." Arya responded with a grumble.

Arya's room was, like most highborn girls, was large and spacious—but much less garbed. Considering Arya's personality it was rather neat and organized. Quite modest, and with Arya's specific request she only kept there what few things she had and only anything that was necessary. There was a large four-poster bed with hanging white sheets and a small dresser to the side, a small wooden chair, and a large carpet by the hearth with pillows where Arya liked to stay and read. There were windows with small niches where she could sit and have a good view of the outside. Gendry sat down near one of the windows with his back against a wall, where he carefully placed the things he brought on to the floor. Arya sat a few inches away from Gendry, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on top of her knees while Gendry poured drinks for the both of them, and they drained their cups one after the other. One thing they both liked about each other is that neither found discomfort in silence—and that was how they drank this night. Silent, taking turns refilling the cups. Gendry was a big drinker, and surprisingly so was Arya. Even more now that she was desperate to clear her head and calm the riot in her chest. She downed the ale like water until Gendry's bottle had been depleted. Arya revealed that she was keeping another in her room and they proceeded to drink that one as well. Arya was growing lighter in the head but the _thing _in her chest was compensating, growing heavier by the minute and sharper with Gendry so close… Gendry, another soul she could tell and trust not to say anything relatively stupid and useless. So about halfway through the second bottle Arya threw her head up, resting it on the wall. She said as calmly as if she were simply telling Gendry she was beginning to feel sleepy.

"Gendry I'm getting married."

Gendry dropped his cup.

Luckily the cup was hardly a fourth full so that they did not worry much over the mess it made. That wasn't quite the reaction Arya was expecting though she wasn't entirely sure why.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Arya**

_Author's Note: hey everyone! I'm sorry for the incredibly long hiatus… although to be honest with you guys, I had legitimately considered completely giving up on this fic because of IRL reasons and the fact that my muse was slowly fading away—but hey, thanks to everyone's encouraging comments and reviews, I found a little bit of inspiration and figured I'd give it a few more hits. Anyway, the plan was to make it alternating POVs but—really what happened was I got too lazy to finish this chapter two months ago, so I just cut it off where it stopped at chapter 6, thus the inconsistency, but whatever. Story first, I guess. Hope you all enjoy this one. [I cannot believe I wrote this one listening to Meshuggah.]_

There was a minute-long silence between the two of them neither Arya or Gendry could comprehend. Nobody knew what it meant, and despite the weighty air of intoxication that seemingly hung over them both, Arya felt slightly uncomfortable. Gendry, however, did not budge—she would under no circumstances be the first one to do so. The silence seemed to drag on forever, and all of a sudden Arya tried incredibly hard to make the fallen cup of drink seem more interesting than it is than look at Arya. Usually, she would probably have just looked him straight in the eye angrily and punched him hard on the shoulder—but this time, things suddenly felt strange.

He wasn't saying anything, either.

And then Arya felt herself lost inside her thoughts for a few moments.

It had suddenly occurred to her that, in fact, Gendry's opinion mattered.

Be it about her or the marriage, to her it mattered—now that she thought about it, it always had. It just sort of happens, she thought—being around someone in life-or-death situations, and especially in a time where Arya barely trusted herself either, Gendry was the little nudge on the outside that she needed. She wondered vaguely what he would say about the marriage, especially that she'd finally said yes—surrendered to it. It was an unspoken agreement and everyone knew that. Otherwise, Arya would not even be found anywhere near Winterfell at all. Arya bit her lip, making a move to pick up the cup. Incidentally, Gendry had been thinking of the same thing and did it before her.

There was a faint, metallic clinking sound as the bottom of the cup resounded with the stone floor. Gendry sniffed once, his elbow propped up on top of his knee as he looked at Arya, his eyes glimmering with the reflection of the fire and his eyebrows furrowed as if in concentration. Arya's mouth was pressed into a hard, thin-line, her face carved of stone, unreadable—but deep down, for some reason she could not explain, her heart fluttered.

Gendry laughed, his shoulders shaking hard as he looked down on the floor, nooding his head—still laughing. Arya's face distorted into a mix of different emotions.

"You should have seen your _face_, Arya. You should have. You looked worse than Sandor Clegane on a bad day." He said, his shoulder shaking harder. Arya kicked his shin with the toe of her boot, and Gendry winced in pain.

"One day, I swear, you will die painfully, eaten by wolves—left to die in the winter woods and I will be there to watch while it happens." She grumbled, taking another long swig of ale and wiping the side of her mouth roughly with the back of her hand. Gendry laughed again.

"Look at you. You're a ruffian. What lord would want you, Arya Stark?" he said, teasingly, but strangely tender, in that familiar voice he always had when he meant to say a harsh joke he never really meant That was the Gendry she knew. Suddenly she felt herself loosen. That was the reaction the expected completely, and his last comment made her chuckle.

"What lord would I take who couldn't beat me at a drinking tourney, indeed?" she said, offering her cup to Gendry for a toast. He lightly tapped his cup against hers, and afterwards they took a drink at the same time, draining the ale it contained completely. They both sighed. Gendry refilled the cups and took another sip as soon as he had finished.

"Come on, Lady Stark. I know you're itching to complain about this to your heart's content." He added before taking another sip, his eyes never leaving Arya.

She smiled, almost forcefully, her eyebrows and forehead creased, her face pinched in a strange expression of worry tinged with misery. Arya exhaled sharply, burying her face in her knees and slowly kneading her temples with the fingers of her left hand.

"Go on, Gendry Baratheon—laugh at my misery all you like." She said dejectedly, but with a smile on her face that Gendry had not missed. He laughed, anyway.

"You know I never miss the chance to."

Again, the silence. For a while Gendry was focused on his cup of ale, drinking it slowly, Arya with her face still buried in her knees, slightly unsure of what to do with herself. This time, she broke the silence.

"I just don't want to be tied down, is all. You know that. It's adventure I want—it's a _life _I want, and _life _for me is out there—not inside the walls of a castle doing the same needlework every single day waiting on my husband while he's out there living the life _I _deserve just so he can come back home and treat me like I'm his possession, like I'm a chicken he can make to lay eggs for him as he pleases." She said acidly. Gendry laughed.

"Don't you think using _chicken _is a tad too extreme? Besides, it's Quentyn, isn't it? He's not the sort to—you know. It can't be all that bad." He tried to add helpfully. Arya let out a bitter laugh.

"Well—you know, he could be bringing around cousins or whatever, you know, so it doesn't really have to be him. Quentyn probably likes this just as little as I do. I mean, he's my friend and all—but he'd be the wife between us two if we got married, although I'm not sure he'd be able to handle giving birth to our children." This time they laughed together.

"You give the boy too little credit. He'd send you back here in less than a week if you talked to him like that all the time."

"Oh, you give him _too _much credit. You think Quentyn would cross me? I taught that boy how to fight."

"No, you're right—he wouldn't. But." He stopped, taking a sip of ale.

"Well?"

"Well then that still makes _you _the wife, if that's the case." Gendry said, raising cup towards her.

"Excellent point, Bull." Arya said bemusedly. As she was about to refill her cup, she discovered there were only about three drops left in it.

"Looks like we're out."

"Right, my lady—would you like for me to go down and steal some more?" Gendry asked, with a mocking bow of his head and sly smile. Gendry's face was already flushed—after all, he'd had more to drink than her since he'd been from the banquet downstairs. Arya smiled solemnly, almost sadly in the dim of the firelight.

"No, it's fine. Besides, it's getting pretty late." She said. Gendry tousled his hair idly.

"Mmmmn. I suppose you're right." He answered sleepily. Arya stood up, offering her hand to Gendry so he could get up. Arya heaved at Gendry's weight, his feet wobbling slightly.

"Well, good night, Arya Stark." Gendry said, dipping his head politely towards her.

"Good night. By the way you are a big, stupid B—"

Arya was stopped short.

She had not seen it coming at all, but all of a sudden Gendry's right arm was looped around her waist, his left hand knotted in her hair and his mouth on hers, his lips playing softly under and over hers. Thoughts kept forming and breaking midway inside her head and nothing made sense, but she found herself doing the same. She felt her body grow limp as her eyes squeezed shut, her head throb slightly and her chest, tighten. She laid her hands gently on his shoulders and she could feel the knots in his muscles, his arm around her waist pulling her in closer. There was nothing else but that unexpected, strange kiss. It was not a sane moment, but all the same it felt like a very good one. It was short, but it felt like years.

Gendry had been the first to pull away, but his arm was still secured tightly to her waist. Neither of them could say a word for a few moments but look confusedly at each other's eyes, Arya's mouth pressed into a thin line and Gendry's slightly ajar. He let go of Arya and took two steps back, his face red—it was hard to tell if it was because he was drunk or if he was simply flushed and flustered. Arya twined her fingers together for lack of anything else to do. Gendry cleared his throat.

"It must have been the ale." He said, forcing out a nervous chuckle.

"We've had too much, Gendry." Arya replied awkwardly.

"Well—we certainly have. Anyway, I _am _sorry. It wasn't—"

"It's fine—it's getting late. Maybe you should get some rest." She said, stopping Gendry. Gendry's mouth dropped open slightly and then stopped short, as if he was about to say something more but thought better of it."

"Good night, Arya. Have a nice evening and don't think too much about—you know, well, don't think about anything, I mean—" he said, almost stuttering. Gendry's face pinched into an expression of self-irritation.

"Just—forget I said anything. Good night." He said tightly through his teeth before getting to the door in a few, swift strides, closing the door behind him with an unexpectedly soft thud.

Arya felt her knees give beneath her, where she luckily fell onto the bed where she had slowly made herself lie down, where she almost fell asleep instantly to the soft, thrumming cacophony between her head and her chest.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Gendry**

_Author's Note: so, what did you folks think of the last chapter? I'd like to thank all the people who tooke some off their precious time to drop me reviews and comments and stuff._

Gendry jogged quickly down the steps, most of his thoughts obscured in hazy, drunken clouds. His head was throbbing, his blood pumping, and his heart was racing—he wasn't sure if it was the exercise, the alcohol, or something else entirely that he couldn't quite make out with all the confusion that buzzed in his head. One minute he would have a thought going and then it was gone as soon as it had come. Gendry knew but one thing.

He needed to go back.

Back to the dining hall and get himself some more drink—and that was where his legs took him. He doubled his pace, taking two or three steps at a time, not worrying whether or not he'd slip and bang his head on the stone stairs given the condition he was in: drunk.

In no time, Gendry had arrived. He pushed the wooden doors wide open and strode inside, seeing most of the men were either passed out like corpses after war in all sorts of places—on the table, perhaps underneath it—while some were too preoccupied with more drinking, games, stories and laughing to notice Gendry as he came in. But the hall was quieter than when he had first left it, snores replacing half the voices he'd been hearing earlier that night. He never bothered to check for his friends, knowing that they all had weak heads for ale and would probably passed out tangled drunkenly around each other in the same place they'd stopped to drink.

He went to the nearest table and grabbed two wine skins, draining what contents they had left before refilling them. He slung the skins on his shoulder and left almost as soon as he had come, as quick as a shadow.

Gendry had a large upper floor in his armory.

The whole structure itself was a gift from the king, and though he had been given his own room in Winterfell, he was the most comfortable there in his work area and as a result, he had a room for himself in its upper floor. There he slept when the cold wasn't too bad up there in the North (where he always kept wood for a fire and skins and blankets beyond count), but really when the cold winds hit there is no place safe other than the walls of Winterfell. In love as he was with the North, Gendry still had the skin of a southerner.

One more thing he loved about his armory was the terrace he had on that same upper floor. Gendry hardly ever went there when the sun up, but he loved sitting down on the wooden floor with his back to the wall during night time. You could see most of Winterfell from there, from the castle just nearby and the woods on the other side, and the wide expanse of glittering starts against the black winter skies above. He stayed their frequently when he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts—or to let them slip by, and although the wind bit and nipped at his skin when he stayed out too long or too late, he didn't mind.

He sat down heavily on the wooden floor, dropping the skins before him. He put his back against the wall, flattened his soles on the floor so that his legs were folded up in front of him where he rested one arm on his knee while he blindly groped for the skin with his other hand. He removed the cork with one flip of his thumb, placed the opening in his lips and threw his head back upon drinking, squeezing his eyes shut and gulping loudly as he did. When the was through, he exhaled loudly, feeling the liquid dribbling from the corners of his mouth before proceeding to wipe them away brashly with the back of his hand.

Gendry stopped and his hand stopped dead on its tracks. He held his breath for a few moments, feeling the warmth of his hand on his face. He turned his hand over slowly, running his thumb lightly over his lips in idle circles. His face twitched in a momentary expression of shame and horror before relaxing again. His fingers found his temples, he let a long and hard sigh escape his chest before his face slumped forward and Gendry let the walls he had painstakingly built around his consciousness fly away like sand against the wind.

_I kissed Arya._

In his head it sounded dry and factual.

_I kissed Arya._

He said it again and he found himself sighing again. He slapped his hand to his forehead before putting them both over his eyes. He dragged his palms over his face in frustration.

_Stop, stop, stop, stop._

Gendry knew he needed to face the problem.

He played the moment in his head again and again and no matter how many times he did he could never quite understand why he did it—or how he _felt _about doing it. He recalled how they'd both just stood up, how he'd taken her by the waist—unconsciously taking care to do it gently but firmly—and he'd let his instincts take its course. He remembered feeling how the curve of her waist seemed to fit perfectly in the crook of his arm. He took in one long breath and he closed his eyes—it was amazing how quickly his own lips had found hers, and although Gendry had never kissed a woman (or man) in his life, seeing the deed done enough times and letting his body do work, he felt like he was doing it right. He recalled vividly the soft, smooth feel of her lips, the moisture, the sharp, fresh taste of drink as he kissed her and—

—as she kissed him back.

He'd missed that detail the first few times, but now he was sure of it. She _did. _He felt her hands on his shoulders, they barely brushing the skin and he could feel the slight hesitation in them, but enough to unconsciously cause him to pull in closer, surer of his kisses than moments before. Then he stopped.

What made him stop?

He pulled his away from her, feeling the slight cohesion as he unwounded his lips from Arya's. His mouth gaping wide open, he looked down on her eyes. He could feel his head throb and his vision going in and out of focus; all the while he kept his arm around her waist. He'd pinched himself on the leg trying to force himself not to pull her in again for another one after seeing the confusion in her eyes and realizing the difficulty of the situation in a moment of clarity. His mind went ablaze trying to look for a way out of his predicament, and it came easily and quickly enough:

The ale, of course. Always blame it on the ale.

And so he did, and Arya was clever enough to have come up with the same answer and they both decided, politely, to go along with the flow. Gendry could feel the familiar acidic sensations in his stomach, the dull thrumming in his head and the overall feeling of slowness—it seemed he _was _drunk, after all. People pulled all sorts of dumb stunts when they were intoxicated and Gendry knew himself to be liable to do something similar. Then again it was Arya—Arya the _untouchable, _his best friend, the king's sister nonetheless. It took a lot to get Gendry drunk given all the experience he'd built for himself. How drunk was he? They would both be too embarrassed to talk about one, awkward drunken night ever again and carry on as they usually did the next morning—he _knew _it, he felt it in his gut and the long years of friendship he'd had with her. Most of all why did the thought bother him so much?

Did he like her?

Without meaning to a laugh escaped his lips.

Along with something else in the deep, dark pits of his stomach.

Gendry stood up and ran to the railings, retching his dinner and all the barrels of ale he'd had that night. It was early in the morning by then. He let it all go out and by the time he was don he was panting and he could feel a sharp stabbing pain in his temples and the back of his skull. He let out a low grunt and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He crawled on all fours drunkenly, reaching for the nearest object for support in order to prop himself up on his two feet. He staggered towards his sleeping quarters where he let his body fall carelessly onto the mattress, his face slumped onto the pillow, his head too painful to hold anymore thoughts for that day.

In no more than a few minutes Gendry was snoring loudly, dreaming the same things he had been thinking of even when he was awake.


End file.
